Several commentators maintain, on what appears to be very inconclusive grounds, that the fountain was at Palazzo, six miles from Venusia. But the poem is obviously inspired by a fountain whose babble had often soothed the ear of Horace, long after he had ceased to visit Venusia. On his farm, therefore, let us believe it to exist, whichever of the springs that are still there we may choose to identify with his description. For there are several, and the local guides are by no means dogmatic as to the "_vero fonte_." That known as the "Fonte della Corte" seems to make out the strongest case for itself. It is within a few hundred yards of the villa, most abundant, and in this respect "fit" to name the river that there takes its rise, which the others--at present, at least--certainly are not. Horace is never weary of singing the praises of his mountain home--"_Satis beatus unicis Sabinis_," "With what I have completely blest, My happy little Sabine nest"-- Odes, II. 18. are the words in which he contrasts his own entire happiness with the restless misery of a millionaire in the midst of his splendour. Again, in one of his Odes to Maecenas (III. 16) he takes up and expands the same theme. "In my crystal stream, my woodland, though its acres are but few, And the trust that I shall gather home my crops in season due, Lies a joy, which he may never grasp, who rules in gorgeous state Fertile Africa's dominions. Happier, happier far my fate! Though for me no bees Calabrian store their honey, nor doth wine Sickening in the Laestrygonian amphora for me refine; Though for me no flocks unnumbered, browsing Gallia's pastures fair, Pant beneath their swelling fleeces, I at least am free from care; Haggard want with direful clamour ravins never at my door, Nor wouldst thou, if more I wanted, oh my friend, deny me more. Appetites subdued will make me richer with my scanty gains, Than the realms of Alyattes wedded to Mygdonia's plains. Much will evermore be wanting unto those who much demand; Blest, whom Jove with what sufficeth dowers, but dowers with sparing hand." It is the nook of earth which, beyond all others, has a charm for him,--the one spot where he is all his own. Here, as Wordsworth beautifully says, he "Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, A natural meal, days, months from Nature's hand, Time, place, and business all at his command," It is in this delightful retreat that, in one of his most graceful Odes, he thus invites the fair Tyndaris to pay him a visit (I. 17):-- "My own sweet Lucretilis ofttime can lure From his native Lycaeus kind Faunus the fleet, To watch o'er my flocks, and to keep them secure From summer's fierce winds, and its rains, and its heat.